


porque tenho saudades de mim

by primaveris



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, Gen, Historical, Historical Hetalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24426694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primaveris/pseuds/primaveris
Summary: Three moments between Portugal and Mozambique throughout the late 20th century.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	porque tenho saudades de mim

Before anything, **warnings** : Mentions of/references to war and genocide. Nothing explicit. We’re talking mostly about the Estado Novo here, expect hints to narratives of colonialism and imperialism; EstadoNovo!Portugal is his own warning and Mozambique is, obviously, a downtrodden colony. Both characters are suffering through a distorted state of mind in their own ways that doesn’t represent their genuine natures. 

~*~*~

_1945_

England hadn't bothered to write back, _naturally, too damn busy for some kind of explanation_ , and although waging war would have been unthinkable, Portugal had still wished for some sort of retaliation, of a counterblow, anything that would somehow prove that Portugal had been neutral, not resigned.

“They won’t be giving an answer,” Mozambique’s voice came from across the room. Portugal turned back from the window to look at him. The small bedroom was lit just by the afternoon glow, giving it a homely atmosphere that Portugal knew Timor cherished. Mozambique had been sitting on a chair by the bed for a few hours now, and that was one of the few things he’d seemed to have been doing these past two years, spending days and nights away caring for Timor, who was sleeping, thank God, after hours of shivering and crying– and he looked so fragile. More so than ever. His face only showed colour where it was bruised – vivid, ugly blotches that seemed to slither and crawl under the bandages on every expanse of his skin, and none of the wounds seemed to be healing, and after months Timor still couldn’t say a word– _Useless, all of them._

“I’m aware of that,” Portugal said tightly. Then, “what makes you think they won’t?” the accusing tone manifested itself more than Portugal wished it to. He was simply trying to understand why Mozambique spoke so assuredly, so confidently, not in his tone, no, but in his _words_ , as if he knew something that Portugal didn’t, a brief and frantic thought that threatened to give Portugal another headache.

“Because they are unable to,” Mozambique’s whisper interrupted his thoughts, downcast and weary eyes still gazing at Timor. “They have nothing to explain.”

And Portugal understood. Because wars had mutated into something peculiar, something eerie and bizarre that he had witnessed before, before _this_ war, the bombs and the rubble, the burning red and the blinding white, and that yet he never managed to comprehend, no matter how many times Prussia had tried to ingrain it in him.

“Invasions are very much worthy of an explanation, Mozambique,” Portugal forced himself to say through gritted teeth. It would do no good to wake Timor now. “Our position in their war was clearly stated, and they still dared to invade neutral territory. Timor had nothing of interest to them, and if Australia had left the boy alone then they wouldn't have almost compromised us.”

Mozambique frowned. It bothered Portugal that he couldn't read his expression, and it bothered him that they were arguing – no, rather, that Mozambique was being difficult, that Mozambique had seemed so distraught and troubled for a few months now, and yet never said what was wrong, in a way that almost made Portugal come to him and whisper, out of habit, _'tell me, is there something bothering you?'_

They were past that, though. Portugal had long tried to teach him to be honest, but certain things were difficult to change. And discreetness wasn't such a bad trait, in a colony.

The evening sun bathed the room in red. They've been here for a while. Portugal's eyes caught the radio on the bedside table, small, a bit out-dated, and, Portugal remembered, defective. They'd have to have it fixed as soon as possible. He closed the window curtains before coming to sit by Timor. Only now did he notice that the boy had been holding, grasping Mozambique's hand, and Portugal's heart swelled with fondness.

“What will we do now?”

Such a vague question.

“I won’t insist with England, nor bother with the Netherlands.” As much as he wanted to, with those two. “We should focus on the exportation of produce,” Portugal rubbed his eyes. What a hassle, this war. “We have attracted enough attention as it is. Not that we're threatened at the moment, but Europe is in ruins, and they will demand our assistance.”

“And _Timor_?” Mozambique's voice sounded strained.

“We’ll reconstruct, of course.” _Not only the homes and the villages and the island, but the minds and the hearts too–_ , “and Timor is staying here from now on.”

“But– Until when?”

“Why, for forever,” Portugal straightened his back. “We can't tell when he'll be fully recovered, and I don't like the idea of him being alone in the middle of those traitors. They might take advantage of his fragile mind and give him ideas,” Portugal looked at Mozambique, “you understand what I mean, don't you?”

Mozambique sighed. He must be tired. “I do, but– isn't he, perhaps, too young to be separated from his land?”

Before Portugal could respond, Mozambique corrected himself. “He belongs here as well, but you know how much he likes it there.”

_No. No, I don't. He never told me that._ The traitors of the state weren't his only concern, Portugal realised.

“It's not your job to worry, but mine,” Portugal forced himself to smile. “It makes me happy that you care for him, but you must rest.”

“I can stay a bit longer," Mozambique pressed. “What if he wakes when I'm not here?”

“Then _I'll_ be here. You've done more than enough.” Before Mozambique could argue back, Portugal reached for the radio. “And have this fixed by tomorrow morning,” he handed him the little box, “it's the only distraction Timor has, after all.”

Mozambique took a few seconds to react, but promptly took the radio. “I– yes. I'll manage it.”

“Thank you. And Mozambique,” there was something ugly growing in him, a snicker in his mind that whispered of scheming and betrayal and–

“I believe it would be better if Timor was left alone, from now on.”

*

“ _He's rather fond of you, isn't he?”_

“ _Him? I doubt it.”_

“ _No, no. I can see it in his eyes. Be careful around him.”_

“ _Hah. I will.”_

_*_

_1961_

Portugal heard Mozambique coming before the boy opened the door; heavy, quick footsteps rushing through creaking wooden floors and thin walls before Mozambique slammed open Portugal’s office door, out of breath, with a paper scrunched up in his hand. Before Portugal could say anything, Mozambique stated, as if it were a fact,

“Angola is rebelling.”

Portugal had been trying to write this particular letter for a few hours now, something regarding _the positive economic and social development of the provinces_ , and it was proving difficult to convince England’s disgraced former colony that intruding in a nation’s overseas policy was considered a war declaration, back in his days.

He looked up from his typewriter. “What?”

Mozambique looked down to his feet, suddenly shy, before raising his head and saying, “An armed group has started attacking Portuguese settlers in northern Angola.” A pause. “They demand independence.”

The silence dragged on. Portugal stared at Mozambique, who held on the gaze, one, two, three seconds. Then Portugal scoffed.

“You mean the uprisings,” Portugal explained slowly, _kindly_. “She’s not rebelling, Mozambique.” He went back to his letter. How was he supposed to clarify to that damned American the concept of state sovereignty?

Mozambique still stood in the center of the room. “No,” he rushed to Portugal’s desk, “no, you don’t understand. Portugal–”

“ _Mozambique,_ ” he interrupted severely, “I’ve already been notified about the attacks. Your sister is just throwing a tantrum. It’s typical of her. She’ll tire out soon.”

Mozambique fumbled in front of him, before taking quick final strides to Portugal’s desk and slamming the paper over his documents. “Read this.”

Portugal was growing frustrated. His lack of attendance at world meetings didn’t cease the diplomatic missions, and dealing with such _impertinence_ more often than not was starting to test his patience. But he needed to remain calm, and he needed to remain understanding. Mozambique was a smart boy, after all.

Portugal took the paper and skimmed through it, although he was already familiar with its contents. He knew Mozambique would remain restless if he didn’t see him read it. “Those attacks have killed more Africans than Portuguese.” Although, he wanted to correct himself, the Portuguese are Africans and the Africans are Portuguese. “What do you think that ought to mean, Mozambique?”

The boy seemed dismayed. And Portugal leaned back on his chair, waiting for a response. The letter could wait. The next words to come out of Mozambique’s mouth would give him a hint of what was still to fix. Portugal tried to meet his eyes, but his province’s glance kept stuttering over the room, scrambling for an answer– _so unlike you._

“Don’t be mad at her.”

Portugal was taken aback. Had he expected confrontation? It took him a few moments to recompose himself. He clasped his hands in front of him, glad that Mozambique was finally looking at him in the eye. “That will depend entirely on her behaviour.”

“She doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“Of course she doesn’t. If she knew, she wouldn’t have done it in the first place.”

Mozambique seemed unconvinced. “I just–”

“She still hasn’t learned,” Portugal hated to admit it, “she still hasn’t learned after all these years. And now that American boy is giving her an opportunity to act up, and she takes it. I wouldn’t have expected anything more from her.”

“ _He_ was the one who came to her. He's tricking her, it's not her fault. Maybe if you just talked to her…”

“And I plan to do that.”

The boy was still sulking. “I heard,” he recomposed himself, “I heard some officers saying they were planning on sending troops. To Angola.”

So that was what was troubling him. “Oh, my boy,” he sighed, standing up to wrap his arms around him. He pretended not to notice the flinch. There was no point in making Mozambique more distressed. “Is that what you’re so worried about?” he murmured. He felt Mozambique nodding, slowly, hesitantly, as if he hadn’t wanted Portugal to know, somehow, and Portugal wanted to smile at just how sentimental the boy was. But Portugal couldn’t smile, not here, not now, so instead he rubbed Mozambique’s back soothingly, hoping the boy would stop shaking. “There is nothing for you to worry about,” Portugal said lowly, “we will only make sure your sister and our people stay safe.” _And that everything goes back to the way it always was._ “We are family. And family is forever.”

*

“ _I'm sorry it took so long.”_

“ _Hey. You're free at last, aren’t you?”_

“ _Yes. And you will be, too. I promise.”_

“ _I know.”_

_*_

_1985_

They had taken refuge in some cave in the middle of God-knows-where– _as if God had ever laid his eyes on Timor,_ – and Mozambique was somehow thankful for the pouring rain that muffled Portugal’s sobs– how long had he been crying now, goddammit? The lighter wasn’t working. It was so difficult to light a cig in this hot, humid, _sticky_ climate. Everything was so damn difficult in this place.

Mozambique grumbled. “Blame yourself all you want,” he gave up on the cig and threw it on the ground. When he turned to Portugal, revolt and grief in his dark, dark eyes, he muttered, “but no one but us can bring Timor back.”

Portugal laughed. “You’re delusional. You used to be the one to bring me back to reality, you know?”

“You called me delusional when I fought for my freedom, too.”

Portugal flinched. “I used to think we were better off alone. But you had friends. Allies,” he corrected himself, “people you could trust. Timor has no one but us. Nobody will listen to me. No one has ever listened to me.” Portugal looked at the sky. So grey. _Just like that day._ “I thought I was finally doing the right thing.”

Mozambique turned back abruptly. “What are you trying to say?” he marched to Portugal. “What do you regret?” The implication was there, and Portugal did wonder what he had meant, whether he regretted liberating himself, whether he regretted trusting America and Russia and Germany–

Whether he regretted landing in Timor all those centuries ago.

And it all became too much, thinking where he’d gone wrong, when he had become so naive, so powerless–

_Lemme be honest with ya_ , a wonderfully lit meeting room, the bitter smell of cheap coffee, a grin, an arm over his shoulder, blue, no, red eyes meeting his own, so intensively and yet so, so vapidly, _that one's not worth the trouble._

He hastily stood up, letting the notebook he'd been clutching fall to the ground, “ _This is all my fault._ ” Mozambique heard him well over rain and thunder. Lighting struck far away from them, and Portugal’s widened eyes shined so bright for that moment, revolt and grief and _betrayal_ flowing through.

Both stood silent. _That was the cruelty of a guilty mind,_ Mozambique mused, _how far can you fight against yourself?_

“You were alone,” Mozambique began slowly, “you were alone, and you thought they were there to help you. You thought,” he hesitated, “they had the interests of your people in mind.”

An exhale. “Yes.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I should have known better,” Portugal sat back on the ground, defeated.

“You know no better than I,” Mozambique said tensely, “the world has changed, and you failed to change with it.” He grabbed his rifle and sat next to Portugal. “You weren’t the only one,” he said. _There are so many more like us. Is that what you were running away from?_

Portugal kept quiet, and he’d stopped crying, too, almost as if he didn’t feel entitled to. From their little haven, the green mountains of the island of Timor seemed timeless, unreachable. Unreal. Mozambique felt Portugal's body lean against him.

The rain had stopped, though. They’d have to leave soon. Hopefully they’d come across some villagers, alive, and hopefully had the Indonesians retreated back to their bases during the storm. And he prayed they’d find little Timor, hidden in some church or in a camp, and while he knew it would mean nothing to have Timor with them, perhaps seeing him would remind Portugal of what they were fighting for.

“We can’t give up,” he said. The sky was clearing out, “no matter how many years it takes.”

“I know.”

_We don't really have another option, do we?,_ it went unsaid.

Mozambique stood up. Portugal was still on the ground, gripping his notebook. That was his weapon, Mozambique understood. He wondered if Portugal secretly wished the rain had lasted a little longer.

“You won’t be free until Timor is free.” He held out a hand to Portugal. “And neither will I.”

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:  
> 1\. ’Porque tenho saudades de mim’ would translate to something along the lines of ‘Because I miss myself’. Thought it’d fit in, that with Portugal and Mozambique’s decaying sense of identity.
> 
> 2\. The Gaza Empire, former Mozambique, was defeated by the Portuguese in 1895. The king was exiled to Portugal, where he would die in the Azores, hence why Mozambique is living with Portugal in the metropole.
> 
> 3\. The Japanese occupation of the island of Timor lasted from 1943, as a result of the defeat of the Allies in the battle of Timor, up to until the end of the war. The invasion and occupation were violent, and it's estimated that 70.000 civilians died either directly by the hand of the Axis or of hunger. Following the occupation, the Portuguese took the opportunity to rebuild the island from scratch.
> 
> 4\. It's disputed when the Battle of Timor really began. Most sources will claim it started with the Japanese invasion of the island on the 19/20th February 1942, while others argue it began when Australian forces landed weeks prior. To Salazar, the arrival of the Allies was in itself an invasion, as all of Portugal had declared itself neutral, and no talks took place to allow the landing of either Allies or Axis on the island.
> 
> 5\. Despite the brutality of the occupation, the incident was quickly swept under the rug, as after the war the Allies had more important things to worry about. Something that greatly infuriated Salazar, obviously.
> 
> 6\. The Spanish Civil War was pretty much a rehearsal for WWII.
> 
> 7\. During and after WWII, Portugal exported pretty much all the food it produced at a low cost to the Allies and previously occupied countries (and to Germany as well, in the beginning of the war.) To most families, agriculture was their only bread-giver, and it became normal for them to have most of their production seized. As a result, many people starved. As Salazar said, "I can free you from war, but I can't free you from hunger." Not a fun fact, but my grandparents went through this. In Portugal we have a very common saying, "s/he's evil like hunger", which is meant to describe how vile some people can be and how hunger is cruel. I guess it shows how common going hungry was in the dictatorship (and unfortunately, still today.)
> 
> 8\. It's debated, but most agree that the Portuguese Colonial War began in March 15th 1961, when the UPA, an Angolan insurgent group backed by the U.S., attacked white settlers and Bantu villagers in northern Angola. Because the number of indigenous victims was much higher than the one of white victims, the Portuguese could take the opportunity to paint the liberation movements as terrorist organizations.
> 
> 9\. Radio was one of the most effective propaganda tools of the Estado Novo regime. An household with its own radio receiver was considered a luxury well into the 70's, but both in mainland Portugal and in the colonies receivers were available at cafés and casas do povo (houses of the people) and because more than two thirds of the population was illiterate, radio propaganda was more efficient than any other instrument. Aph Mozambique purposely broke the radio in Timor's room.
> 
> 10\. Dissidents of the dictatorship were often exiled to the colony of East Timor. A majority of them was killed during the Battle of Timor by Japanese forces or due to starvation.
> 
> There were some more notes, but I've run out of characters left...


End file.
